Admission
by peacefulsands
Summary: Fireworks remind him of gunshots.


**Title : Admission**

**Fandom :** Avengers/Captain America

**Rating** : PG-13

Written for the fic_promptly prompt of _Avengers, Steve Rogers, fireworks remind him of gunshots_

**Warnings**: Please take note of the prompt for which this is written - it deals with blurring of lines between past and present (battle memories)

**Disclaimer** : All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

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><p><strong><span>Admission<span>**

Steve stepped quietly from his place at the back of the group. He slipped inside the house, hoping no one turned to look, that no one would notice his absence. His 'cowardly retreat' – the phrase skittered derisively through his own mind. They were young, full of life: they wouldn't understand this; him; his weakness.

He is patriotic, he is proud of his country, of its achievements and progress. But none of that changes the fact that he's a man with a past, a past that robs him of certain simple pastimes with friends.

What angers him most about it is not even that he cannot stay with his friends but that he knows . . . he knows where he is, when he is and what is happening . . . but he still can't stop the reaction.

He's inside, he's away from the sudden flash, bright light and twinkling starlight dripping down through the sky, expanding as it cascades into every color and every direction. He knows what it is, but the bang gets him the same as if he were out on a battlefield. The crack, the pop, the rat-a-tat-a-tat of each minor explosion. He knows that outside, the sky is glorious, his friends are laughing, maybe exclaiming with 'Oooh's and 'Aaah's at the spectacle they're watching.

But not for him. His vision clouds . . . all he sees is the smoke and burning of the past, drowning in the screams and cries of dying men, nose wrinkling at the assault of fear and pain on every one of his senses.

One arm against the wall, he heads deeper into the house, trying to get away, to hide, to find a respite from it all. Tony's workshop . . . He pants, trying to even out his breathing long enough to keep control. He's not Captain America when he's like this. What makes it worse is the knowledge that if it were real, this is not how he would react.

Adrenaline would kick in, righteousness, his whole point of being would be there before him, making sure that he did what he's supposed to do; not like now, with nothing but a few fireworks to drive him away.

The closer he gets to Tony's workshop, he thinks he can already hear the music playing, sure that it's going to drown out the torment. It isn't until he's staggering through the door, sweat beading on his forehead, breath still short and ragged and trying to think what it is he needs to do, say, to make JARVIS play Tony's loudest most obnoxious music, that he realizes the music iis/i playing and he can't hear those damned fireworks anymore. He tries to breathe, to see reality before him, the present.

He jerks away from the touch on his arm, eyes finally starting to focus and seeing Tony . . . Tony with a smudge of grease on his cheek and another on his bicep, Tony with a worried look on his face, not the Tony who he'd seen upstairs a short time ago, this one is wearing jeans and a wife-beater, not the smart party attire the one upstairs was wearing.

"Hey," Tony's voice is softer than he remembers and he shudders, trying to bring his thoughts into line; feels instead, as his footsteps are guided across the room as he is pushed onto a stool and tilted forward, his head dropping towards his knees. He forces himself up, looking round, registering Tony's workshop, the music, home, safety.

He pushes Tony away, but the movement is gentle; an indication of the need for space rather than a rejection and Tony gives it to him for a moment or two . . . three . . . he loses count before a shudder takes him, wracking him from head to toe. Then Tony's back, hand warm and heavy where it rest on his shoulder as he mutters reassurances.

"Fucking fireworks!" Tony says irreverently. "They're a waste of time and effort. I vote for next Fourth of July, you and I go out of the country – I know a deserted island . . . I could talk to Pepper, the company might be able to stretch to buying it. . ."

Steve's smile is tentative but grateful and he takes a few more breaths before he can get words out. He doesn't bother with sorry or explanations; he knows now that Tony doesn't need them. Tony, in his own way, understands and that's all that matters. "That's a little extravagant even for you," he replies softly and Tony grins broadly and shrugs.

Dummy appears alongside Tony, he's got a tray with drinks on it. It looks like whiskey. Steve doesn't bother with his usual explanation of how drink doesn't affect him, he just chinks glasses with Tony and knocks it back, relishing the burn of the liquor as it goes down as yet another sensation to bring him away from the dark place he'd almost trapped himself.

"We're not trying to get you drunk tonight," Tony says, warmly, his touch still grounding Steve. "But do you want to raise a glass to those we lost?"

Steve nods. They each toast and drink and then Tony is screwing the lid back on, ushering Dummy away with it before Steve has time to think about it. He feels calmer, steadier . . . here. He's still quiet, but he watches as Tony moves and before he knows it Tony's putting a pencil in his hand, turning him to the desk behind him and he's losing himself in the familiarity of sketching. Tony goes back to his work alongside, never far away and never silent. He rambles as he works and some of it is just sound but bits here and there are enough to catch Steve's attention, have him looking up, taking in what Tony is telling and showing him.

And the past recedes, back where it belongs and he's here and now and so is Tony and for that he's thankful.

"You know you could just get the others invites to some elaborate party in town and we could hide out here next year," Steve offers. "After all that might be cheaper than buying a whole island for just the two of us to use once or twice a year to escape a few fireworks."

"You're probably right, or at least, Pepper would probably agree with you." He grins.

Steve knows they can both get through this and survive and that neither of them are alone anymore.


End file.
